One Hot Target

by Diane Pershing

  She took a breath and blew it out. “Sorry. I’m babbling.”

  “Babble away. It’s okay.”

  “But now I see that I must have pushed a button, opened up a nightmare. Why didn’t she tell me, JR? Why didn’t she just sit me down and tell me the truth?”

  At the sound of the bathroom door opening, JR rose.

  Ben walked into the living room. “Hey, you guys, I feel bad.” He looked over at Carmen, still seated, her hands clasped in her lap. “I mean, I didn’t mean to bum you out.”

  She returned his gaze and shook her head. “No. It’s okay. Actually, it answers a lot of questions I’ve always had.”

  “Yeah, but bummer. You know?”

  JR nodded. “Yes. Definitely a bummer.”

  Ben walked over to where his board was propped, hoisted it and held it close to his body. JR joined him at the door and opened it for him.

  “Oh, one more thing,” Ben said, preparing to leave. “I almost forgot. That Gidget chick? She was in the movie. Played one of the beach bunnies. Her real name is Esther Lincoln, but she’s listed in Screen Actors Guild as Ella L. Louise. Had a breakdown when her kid died—he was five and he drowned. She’s been in and out of mental hospitals ever since.”

  Despite her preoccupation with Ben’s bombshell, Carmen felt the back of her eyes prickling. “Poor Gidget.”

  “So,” Ben said, “anyway, I left the report. It’s yours. Later.”

  JR clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks so much.”

  The blond young man shrugged. “Like I said, anything for Mac.”

  And then he was gone.

  JR closed the door, then turned and looked at Carmen. Her suffering, her confusion, her pain, it was all there on her face.

  All day, she and JR had avoided picking up the “relationship” discussion that had ended so abruptly in the morning; once again, he knew, it would have to be put off. Carmen needed him to be there for her, as a friend, a confidante, a rock. All the rest, the entire topic of sex and love versus friendship and love, was, for the present, relegated to the back burner. If he were a man who believed in fate and predestination, he would have suspected that there was some kind of cosmic conspiracy afoot to prevent him and Carmen from ever getting together.

  But he didn’t believe in all that. It was timing, that’s all. And now was not the time.

  “What can I do for you, Carm?”

  She rose and walked over to the window, stared out at the ocean for a few minutes before saying, “I need to talk to Mom.”

  “Yes.” He joined her at the window, put his good arm around her and felt her rest her head on his shoulder, the way she had hundreds of times before. “This must be so hard for you.”

  “Right now, all I feel is numb. It’s so weird. I guess I’m…I mean, I think I’m angry. At Mom. Why didn’t she tell me? Why didn’t Dad tell me?”

  “They must have had their reasons.”

  “Maybe so, but I need to know what they were.”

  He nodded. “I’m trying to imagine how I would feel if I just found this out. It’s a lot to take in.”

  Her small laugh was utterly devoid of mirth. “You could say that.”

  She moved away from him, walked around the room for a moment or two before stopping at a painting JR had picked up in northern England once. It was an oil of a sailboat in the middle of the ocean. Wind whipped its sails and the waves around it were choppy.

  She stared at the painting, hugging herself the way she did when she was feeling lost. The outfit she wore this evening, beige loose-legged pants and an off-white wraparound blouse, was unusually subdued, for Carmen. “Brave little boat,” she said softly, “out there all by itself, but hanging on.” She perused the painting for several moments more before saying, “I guess I should go to see her.”

  “Call Grace, see if she’s home. We can be out of here in ten minutes.”

  She angled her head around to face him. In the fading daylight from his picture window, her face matched the oddly colorless quality of her clothing, except for the large brown eyes, now so sad that he felt a hitch in his heart. “You don’t have to go with me, JR.”

  Don’t be silly, of course I’m coming. You need me. He nearly said it; just a few days ago he wouldn’t have hesitated. But things between them had changed. He’d heard her this morning—she didn’t like it when he gave her “orders,” didn’t want him to tell her what she needed.

  So instead he nodded his head once. “You’re right, it’s personal. Maybe it’s best if I don’t go with you. You can take my car. I mean, the rental car.”

  The disappointed look on her face said he hadn’t given the right answer, so he segued smoothly into, “But if you want me there, I want to be there. And hell, what am I thinking? Of course I’m going. Have you forgotten? Have we both forgotten? You’re not driving up there alone. You’re in danger.”

  One hand flew to her mouth. “You know what? I had nearly forgotten. That other thing. That someone-is-out-to-kill-me thing.” She rubbed furiously at her eyes with the heel of her hands, as though trying to scrub away reality. “Oh, boy. Remember before when you said I was strong? I’m not feeling real strong right about now.”

  “Of course you’re not,” he said grimly. “How many body blows can a person take in one week? We’ll get through this, Carm. I promise.” He walked over to a side table, picked up the portable phone and held it out to her. “Call Grace.”

  She took the phone and hugged it to her chest. “Do you think this…parentage thing has anything to do with this…other thing?”

  “I have no idea. Let’s see what Grace has to say.”

  She nodded slowly, then straightened her shoulders. “Okay. I’ll call Mom, make sure she’s there. And then we can take off. What about our—” she jerked a thumb toward the window that faced the street “—protection?”

  “Mac said wherever we went, they would follow. We’re to ignore them, pretend they’re not there.”

  “Well, I’m awfully glad they are. Two whole days with no potshots, no guns. It doesn’t get much better than that, huh?”

  He took her face in his hands and gave her a quick kiss on the mouth. “We’ll get through this, Carm,” he reiterated, willing her to believe him. “You know we will.”

  “Boy, JR, I sure hope so.”

  The sun was gone for the day as Carmen and JR pulled into the short driveway that led to her mother’s house. As soon as they did, a porch light went on, the front door opened and Grace came hurrying out of the house. Obviously, she’d been watching for them. The look on her face was tense.

  “What is it, Carmen?” she asked, the moment her daughter threw open the driver’s side door. She grabbed her by the upper arms and stared at her, studying her intently. “Are you okay?”

  When the passenger side door slammed, Grace glanced over at JR. Her eyes widened in alarm. “JR. What happened to you? What’s wrong with your arm? Whose car is this? Did you have an accident?”

  She looked past them to where a plain sedan had just pulled up to the curb. Two men sat in the front seat. “And who are they?”

  Carmen couldn’t help observing that this was not the usual unruffled, possessor of two master’s degrees, salt-of-the-earth mother she’d grown up with. Mom was spooked, big-time.

  But all of Grace’s scattered questions about accidents and JR’s arm had the effect of bringing home something Carmen had managed to forget: Mom didn’t know about Friday’s shooting. She and Shannon had mutually decided to protect her from more bad news, but the way Mom was looking back and forth, from JR to her, made her conclude no one could be spared the truth. Not today.

  “I’m fine, Mom,” she said. “So is JR. Those men are policemen. They’re here to protect me.”

  “Protect you?”

  JR took over. “Why don’t we go into the house, Grace?”

  The older woman’s hand flew to her throat and she looked at one, then the other. “You’re scaring me.”

  “
It’s okay, Mom,” Carmen said as soothingly as she could, taking her mother’s arm and walking with her toward the old house. Seeing the fear on Grace’s face churned up all kinds of emotions inside her. This woman might not have been her biological mother, but she was the only mother she’d ever known, the only mother she’d ever loved. Still loved.

  They seated themselves at the scarred rectangular table in the breakfast nook, surrounded by all kinds of family pictures that adorned the walls. Professional and amateur photos of Grace and Gerald on their wedding day, of all three adorable and adored Coyle kids at various stages, from infancy all the way through to the most recent Christmas, nearly a year ago.

  Grace had put on a pot of coffee; they sat now with full, steaming cups of the dark brew in front of them. “Those two men outside,” she said. “Do you think they’d like some coffee?”

  “We’re to pretend they’re not there,” Carmen said.

  “Oh,” Grace said. “I see. Or rather, I don’t.” She picked up her cup. After she took a sip of the hot liquid, she set it down again. “Okay,” she said firmly. “You were very mysterious on the phone so now, tell me.”

  She looked from one to the other, and as though by unspoken agreement, JR took the first part. It would be Carmen’s job—Carmen’s obligation, she knew—to deal with the other.

  “Grace, the shooting the other day that Carmen witnessed?”

  “Yes?” She looked at her daughter, picked up her hand and squeezed it.

  “The police seem to think that the original target wasn’t the woman who was murdered. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but they think it was Carmen. That’s why she has police protection.”

  Grace Coyle’s eyes widened, then her face drained of all color. “What?”

  “Mom?” Carmen said anxiously. “Are you okay?”

  She waved away her daughter’s concern, then sat straighter in her chair. “Go on.”

  “On Friday morning,” JR said, “someone did shoot at her. As it happens, they missed, but they got me in the shoulder. A surface wound, that’s all. Carmen’s fine. So am I. As you can see.”

  Grace’s gray eyes filled with tears. Again, her hand flew to her mouth. “No.”

  “JR was a hero, Mom,” Carmen told her. “He pushed me down, out of the way, which was when he got shot.”

  The older woman looked at her daughter, touched her face, her shoulder, as though assuring herself that she was still there. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  She managed a smile. “You’re looking at me, aren’t you?”

  “And JR.” Grace turned to him. “Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I’m so glad you were there. But, how awful for you. I mean, your shoulder.” She halted in midsentence; it was obvious that she was thoroughly confused. “But, why?” she whispered. “Why would someone, anyone, want Carmen—” she swallowed “—dead?” As she uttered the last word, a huge sob rose from deep inside her.

  Carmen pushed back her chair and hurried to stand behind Grace, resting her cheek on her head. “It’s okay, Mom,” she soothed, rubbing the palms of her hands up and down over her mother’s plump shoulders. “I’m all right.”

  While offering comfort and solace to Grace, she had the oddest flash of self-awareness. This must be one of those moments, she realized, one of those passages all the commentators and sociologists and shrinks talked about and wrote about. That shift that happened at some point after children became adults. The moment in time when the child becomes the parent. She’d read about it, but hadn’t really experienced it yet.

  Right now, all she knew was that her mother needed taking care of, and that despite her own personal trauma of the past few days, she was the one who could offer it.

  It only lasted for a few moments—Grace didn’t permit it to go on any longer. JR found a box of tissues in the kitchen and brought them over to the table. Grace wiped at her eyes, sniffled and tried to pull herself together. She gazed up at Carmen with a watery smile and patted her arm. “I’m okay now. Sorry. I’m not used to losing it like that.”

  JR said, “I think you’re forgiven.”

  Grace clutched one of Carmen’s hands and squeezed it tight. “You’ll stay here. Until they catch whomever did this. Do they have any witnesses? Any suspects?”

  “Nothing so far,” JR said. “A figure in black, not much more.”

  “A figure in black,” Grace repeated musingly, her brows drawn into a frown. “That’s pretty vague, isn’t it? Does Shannon know?”

  Carmen resumed her seat at the table and nodded. “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me as soon as it happened? No,” she said, waving off whatever Carmen was about to say. “I know. You were protecting me. I did the same thing with my mother.” She made a mock face of disapproval. “I should be angry with you, but I guess I’ll forgive you, just this once. Just remember, I’m not an old hag yet. I can take whatever life throws at me. Okay?” She looked from Carmen to JR and back to Carmen. She smiled again, stronger now. “End of lecture.”

  “Mom, there’s more.”

  Her comment wiped the we-can-handle-this smile right off her mother’s face. This time she put both hands around her coffee cup and squeezed. “Oh, no. What more could there be?”

  She hated this. Now that she was here, facing Grace, Carmen wondered wildly if there was some way to put it off to another time. But there would never be a good time, would there? And, although what she’d learned about her background a couple of hours ago was unlikely to be connected to the danger she was in at present, no one could say that for sure. Besides, Carmen needed to know.

  “Here’s the thing, Mom,” she began. “No one has any idea why someone is coming after me, but there has to be some connection to me—to who I am, who or what I know, right?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “So we did a deep background computer check on me, on—” she paused “—everything about me.”

  Again, Grace’s face drained of all color. This time, however, Carmen had the sense her mother knew what she was about to say before she actually said it.

  She went on. “So that’s when I found out you’re…not my biological mother.”

  No one spoke for quite a while. On the far wall of the kitchen, an old grandfather clock ticked away, sounding way too loud in the silence. Carmen glanced over at JR, but he was watching Grace’s face intently, waiting for her to respond.

  Finally she did, saying dully, “Yes. I see.”

  Carmen waited. And waited some more. But Grace remained mute.

  She shook her head in disbelief. “That’s all? ‘I see’?”

  Grace seemed to have gone somewhere inside herself, muttering more to herself than to Carmen and JR. “We should have told you years ago.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  The older woman’s head shot up, as though she’d forgotten there was anyone else in the room. “Your father. It was his wish that you never know.”

  “Well, I do know, so tell me about it.” It came out more harshly than Carmen had planned, but that initial anger she’d felt at being lied to for so many years was back. “What happened? Who was my mother? I don’t understand any of this.”

  JR began to reach across the table, as though to pat her on the arm, telling her to dial it back, but she shook her head. “Don’t, JR. I want answers.” She turned back and stared hard at Grace. “I think I deserve some answers.”

  Grace nodded slowly. “Yes. Of course you do,” she said with a sad smile. She inhaled a big breath then let it out. “Coffee is all well and good, but I need a glass of wine. Anyone care to join me?”

  Minutes later, they sat in front of the brick fireplace in the living room, surrounded by more family photographs, and some of Carmen’s younger brother, Shane’s, framed watercolors. JR had offered to leave the two women alone, but they both insisted he stay. They sipped their wine while Grace Coyle told the story.

  “I have never loved any man but your father,” she began, “and we
had a wonderful marriage…or, at least, I thought we did. One night, nearly thirty years ago—” she smiled briefly at Carmen “—I came down to the den because I thought I heard someone sobbing. I figured your father had left the TV on. Instead, I found Gerald crying. It was when we lived in Wisconsin, before we moved to California. He was teaching at the university and I was going to school. Anyhow, your father was sobbing as though his heart would break. Watching him, I felt as though my own heart would break.

  “I asked him to tell me what was wrong, but he just shook his head and said he couldn’t. I was hurt. He always told me everything, or so I thought. We were friends as well as spouses, and I certainly had never kept anything from him.”

  She took a sip of her wine and stared off into space as she went on.

  “So I sat down and waited. I didn’t push, I didn’t pry. I just waited. And eventually, he calmed down and told me. He’d had an affair.” Grace swallowed once before saying, “No, that wasn’t the right word. A one-night stand. The single time he’d been unfaithful to me, he swore. He’d been away at a conference in Tempe, Arizona, and had had too much to drink. He’d been picked up by some young woman and had spent the night with her.”

  She looked down at her lap, shook her head as though the memory, muted though it might be by the passing of years, was still a painful one. Then she directed her gaze at Carmen and with a small, bitter smile, said, “Needless to say, I was hurt. Devastated. Not sure what I wanted to do about the situation. Not even sure how much to believe him. If he’d strayed once, I figured, maybe there was a pattern. All of a sudden, I realized I didn’t know this man I had married. I was terrified. I said I needed some time alone but he told me that there was more to the story.”

  Grace splayed her hand over her chest, as though trying to contain whatever emotion was bursting to be set free. “My heart stopped, Carmen, you must believe me. What more could there be? He’d already broken my heart, destroyed my trust in him, rocked the foundations of my universe. But then he told me the rest of it, and of course, my universe was changed forever.

  “There was a child, he told me. An infant. A little girl.” She shook her head back and forth. “And even then, the story wasn’t done. This young woman, this one-night stand, had died giving birth to the child. I know it sounds archaic, even back then, but she had some kind of rare blood disorder—you didn’t inherit it, by the way, we’ve checked it out.”